Fool Me Once
by 16magnolias
Summary: "If you're attempting to decide on a reaction, Dr. Hooper, I'd stick with anger. It's more attractive on you." Set between The Great Game and ASiB. Molly learns who Jim from IT really is, and her reaction surprises the world's only consulting detective. A look into Jim and Molly's 3 dates; Sherlolly later on. T b/c I'm always worried. Nothing major.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! I got the idea for this while writing chapter ten of my other fic, Lessons in Love. I was always curious as to how Molly would react when she found out Jim from I.T. was a psycopath. Not sure how long this will be, because I am still working on my other story. It will be at least a two-shot, maybe more. Let me know if you like it. **

**Inspiration for a lot of this came from Molly Hooper's blog. (Did you know Molly, John, and Sherlock all have blogs? You should look them up - they're hilarious!)**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

Chapter One

When she first meets him, it's only a handful of words on a blog she assumes no one reads and few people know about. But he compliments her nose, which she's never thought of as one of her more noticeable features, and he invites her to meet him in the canteen for coffee. When she arrives, he's already gotten two cups – both black – but he's got a mound of sugars, sweeteners, and flavored creamers on the table so she can fix her own how she likes it. It's thoughtful, really.

And as they chat over the coffee, he's lovely. Perfectly lovely. He introduces himself as 'Jim from I.T.' and he's handsome enough, and charming, and his eyes are dark but gentle. They're a stark contrast from the cold, harsh blue eyes that so normally fill her waking thoughts. And she's comfortable around him. She feels confident, and herself – she's only ever a mouse around _Sherlock_, after all – and she finds herself making jokes that are actually somewhat appropriate and when he laughs, it's not forced. He's not Sherlock, but if she's being honest with herself, she'll never have Sherlock, and Sherlock's never even _noticed_ her except to manipulate her. (She wonders if he's ever considered just explaining what he needs and saying 'please', but she secretly likes his attentions, however false they may be.) So she decides to give it a go with Jim.

* * *

The next time she sees him, it's right after he's helped her solve a puzzle from Sherlock's own blog. They meet for coffee again, and this time, he's remembered how she likes it, and even though he added just a bit too much cream (she likes one and a half, _exactly_), it's still a wonderful change to be remembered. They sit and chat for so long that coffee turns into lunch, and he's a good conversationalist. He's excellent at holding his end of the dialogue, and he's funny in a sweet sort of way, and he's always interested in what she has to say about her job. He keeps turning the focus back to her and her work with the police force and Sherlock, but for once she doesn't mind being in the spotlight. He laughs when she tells him about the time Sherlock beat a corpse with a riding crop and when he deduced that one of the custodians had been getting high on the fumes from cleaning products.

They speak seriously for a few moments on the recent gas leak that's cost twelve people their lives, and on the maniac who's been strapping people into vests made of bombs.

But Molly reassures him that Sherlock is probably out there figuring out who's done it right now, and that everything will be fine soon. Even with Jim, she can't help but have absolute, adoring faith in Sherlock, because – well, because he's _him_, and she's _her_. And Jim doesn't seem to mind, because he's read John Watson's blog as well, and his ready acceptance of her attitude towards the detective makes her like Jim from I.T. even more.

On a whim, she invites him to her place for dinner and to watch a show she's loved watching lately called _Glee_. She's a bit nervous, because she hasn't cooked for anyone more than herself in a long time. Pasta is easily made, however, and she touches up her lipstick and braids her hair to one side because Sherlock once said it suited her.

The evening goes better than expected, and Jim is attentive and charming and reacts at all the right parts to her newest favorite show on the telly. Toby seems to like him, although he likes just about everyone, and she's flattered when Jim wants to take a picture with her to 'prove to his mates' he can get a date with a 'beautiful doctor'. He shows her the picture on his phone, and she laughs prettily when she sees Toby has somehow photobombed the shot. It's adorable, and she loves it, and she tells him so, and he kisses her lightly on the cheek in thanks as he leaves that night.

* * *

The next day, he flirts with her on her blog, and she finds herself flirting back. _Maybe one day I will get over Sherlock_, Molly thinks to herself, waiting for Jim to come show her how to 'turn spellcheck on' again. She mentally lists the awful things about Sherlock – _He's rude, he's arrogant, he loves crime and death_ – but then she realizes she can't really fault him for loving death, because in a strange sort of way, she enjoys being around it, too. She does work in a morgue, after all. And then she finds she can't find any more faults, because 'rude' and 'arrogant' kind of cover everything, and really, he is a good person, and brilliant, and one of a kind, and –

And Jim arrives, and she mentally berates herself and focuses on learning from Jim just how to make sure her spellcheck is on. And he stays longer than necessary, and smiles brilliantly at her. When he leans in to kiss her, she only hesitates for a moment, and then responds with the gentle timidity of a woman who has not kissed a man in many, many months. It only lasts a moment, but it's a pleasant enough one.

He invites her to dinner at the Fox, and she's about to reply with an enthusiastic yes when she's interrupted with a text from Sherlock, demanding help in the lab, because Harold the intern is giving him trouble again and won't let him get what he needs.

She sighs, and excuses herself, and when she says it's Harold needing to be rescued from Sherlock, Jim's eyes light up. She can tell he wants to meet Sherlock, so she invites him along. He readily accepts. She has to admit, she's interested herself to see how Sherlock will react. She doesn't hope for jealousy, because that's too much for even Molly Hooper to hope for, but maybe…just maybe…he'll notice she's a woman who's attractive to someone of the male variety.

* * *

When she enters the room, she can tell Sherlock's already bullied Harold into giving him what he wants and that he's intently focused on analyzing whatever is under that microscope.

"Any luck then?" she asks, heart already beating a little more quickly at the thought of introducing Sherlock to her sort-of boyfriend. Jim did kiss her, after all.

"Hey!" Jim calls as he heads in the doors. She can tell he's excited, and a little nervous, and her heart warms to him just a little more.

"Come in, come in. Jim," she turns towards the detective at the microscope, who is studiously ignoring everyone in the room. "This is Sherlock Holmes."

She turns, frowning, at the man behind him. With Sherlock in front of her, and her sort-of boyfriend next to her, she's flustered all over again and can't seem to remember the man whose blog she regularly reads now. "And…uh…" she blushes, and looks at him apologetically. "Sorry."

Molly can tell he's a little put off, and she cringes internally, but he supplies his name. "John Watson."

_Duh_.

"Hi," Jim smiles, nodding at the doctor, then returns his attention to Sherlock. "So you're Sherlock Holmes! Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?" He walks around the counter, trying to get a look at what Sherlock's looking at.

Molly suddenly feels very nervous, because she knows Sherlock hates people touching his things – he barely trusts her to help him – and she wonders for a moment if this was a bad idea. She resorts to babbling. "Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. A bit of an office romance." She giggles, and so does Jim.

"Gay." The deep voice from the consulting detective swipes the silly grin off her face in an instant.

Surely she's heard wrong. Jim _kissed_ her. On the lips. It was a chaste little kiss…but _still_. "Sorry? What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock mutters, then glances at Jim with a false smile. "Hey."

"Hey," Jim replies, and Molly does have to admit that the way he draws out the word, it does sound, well - and then Jim's knocking Sherlock's things off the counter and she cringes outwardly as well this time.

"Sorry – sorry!" Jim apologizes profusely, laughing, nervous. She wonders if that's how she looks half the time she's with Sherlock, and she hates this moment just a little bit more for its reflection of her in it. "Well, I'd better be off." Jim turns to her, smiling again, and she forgives him for reminding her what a fool she is to be in love with Sherlock Holms. "I'll see you at the Fox, about sixish?"

Her smile is a warm one. "Yeah."

"Bye…it was nice to meet you." Jim's looking intently at the back of Sherlock's head, but he doesn't give a response.

John clears his throat. "You too."

Molly's smile follows Jim as he leaves the room, then turns on Sherlock. She's angry, really, truly angry at him – because he's a prat and how dare he ruin something that's given her so much confidence in less than a week? She's not sure where this confidence is coming from, now that Jim's left the room, but she'll use it to her advantage this time. "What do you mean, gay? We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

This makes her angrier, but it also catches her off guard. Her smile falters a bit, but she's proud that when she replies, her voice doesn't waver. "Two and a half."

"Well…three." And the smug sound of his voice, coupled with the fact that he hasn't even had the decency to face her while dismantling her hopes for a normal relationship, sends Molly over the edge.

Her cheeks color and her eyes are bright when she yells at him. "He's NOT gay. Why do you have to _spoil_– he's not." She glances towards John for support, embarrassed, because she knows Sherlock's always right, and she already feels like a fool for bringing Jim around.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock finally breaks his gaze from the slide to look at her.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? _I_ put product in my hair," John says, returning her glance, trying desperately to save her. And Molly feels a surge of thankfulness towards this man, and she vows to always remember his name from now on.

John's rescue is to no avail. Sherlock scoffs. "You _wash_ your hair, there's a difference. No…no…" he's shaking his head at their stupidity. "Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of concealer round the frown line and liner round his eyes -" he shoots off support for his theory, and Molly has to admit she hadn't really noticed the tint or concealer before – "and then there's his underwear."

Molly's face contorts into something akin to rage and embarrassment's love child. "_Underwear_?"

"Visible above the waistline – _very_ visible – and with that thick of a neon band…plus, there's the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish." With those last words nailing the lid on the coffin of her love live, he pulls said paper out from under the dish with a flourish. He's…_proud_. He's…_enjoying_ this.

"So," he continues, "I say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly's eyes look around the room, trying desperately to find something that will excuse her from this maddening situation. She finds nothing, and does the only thing a mouse can do, when faced with a predator intent on destroying it: she flees.

She doesn't notice that Sherlock's smirk falls as he notices the tears in her eyes, or the confusion that briefly plays over his face as she escapes. She most certainly doesn't hear the conversation that follows as she leaves the room.

* * *

John sighs in frustration. "So…well done. Well _done_."

Sherlock is still confused, frowning. He had assumed she'd _want_ to know she was wasting her time with a gay man. He had thought he was _helping_ her, as she had so often helped him in the lab. Apparently, his analysis of the situation was – and still is - dead wrong. "Just saving her time," he explains, turning to John. "Isn't that 'kinder'?"

John snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. "'Kinder'? No, no. Sherlock…" and he sighs the way a mother sighs when her child does something unbelievably stupid, while knowing that he just didn't know any better. "That wasn't _kind_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! I've decided this will be a 3 shot. I'm snowed in today, so I'll start working on Chapter 3 directly. The last chapter will contain the same sort of gentle, subtle Sherlolly that I absolutely adore in S2E3 and S3E1. **

**Please review! *bribes you with tea from Mrs. Hudson* (Sadly, I could not afford tea from Sherlock...the price was too steep.)  
**

Chapter 2

Molly stands in the shower, allowing the hot water to cleanse her pores and her mind. She has only half an hour to get ready to meet Jim at the Fox tonight, and she doesn't know what she's going to say when she gets there. The afternoon with Sherlock and John Watson (see, there, she _can_ remember his name) keeps playing over in her mind. She reviews the facts herself, and with a sinking feeling in her chest, decides that maybe – maybe Sherlock is right.

And, really, although she can't possibly imagine being in more pain than she is now (oh, the humility of having the love of your life point out that the man you're dating is not, and could not _ever_ be interested in you!), she decides that perhaps Sherlock was right on two accounts. Confronting Jim over this now will save her agony in the long run.

_But he kissed you_, her mind keeps telling her. _Why would he kiss you on the lips if he were gay?_ And then another part of her mind replies – _why would he leave Sherlock his number if he weren't gay_?

Molly sighs. Tonight is not going to be easy.

* * *

It was easier than she thought it would be. Well, not really _easy – _everything had just happened so fast she didn't have time to feel anything until she was left at the table with the check and shocked confusion on her face.

They'd met for dinner, and halfway through the soup, Molly blurted out the question. "Jim? Are you – are you gay? Because Sherlock says you are and he's never wrong, but you kissed me on the _lips_ and I'm not sure where this is going because we've gone out three times now and if you're gay it's fine its – really totally fine, but I don't think we should see each other like _this _any more."

The change in his expression was almost astonishing. It looked, for a moment, that he was almost – _ecstatic_ – but that strange expression was masked immediately with one of hurt, betrayal, and rejection. "Molly – _why_ would it matter if I'm gay?"

"It's not – it doesn't – I mean, why are you going _out_ with me if you're gay? It hardly seems fair-"

"No!" He shouted suddenly. "No, it's _not_ fair! It's not fair that you go out with me _three_ times and then attempt to break up with me because some arrogant prick tells you I'm gay!"

Molly blinked in confusion. "Then _why _did you leave him your number?"

"I don't have to take this. I'm leaving. Good-bye, Molly Hooper."

He left her there, staring at her soup, dry-eyed and wondering what on earth had just happened.

* * *

The tears come later, when she's at home with Toby, curled up on the couch with hot cocoa and watching _Friends_ because the theme song is the theme to her life right now, except she doesn't have a Ross or Joey or even a Phoebe around, and it's too painful to watch _Glee_ right now.

She thinks about texting Jim, because she feels awful about their date earlier, but she can't bring herself to do it. She still doesn't understand whether he's gay or not, which doesn't really matter at all if they're friends but matters a great deal if he was trying to _date_ her to get to _Sherlock_. She doesn't understand the kiss, she doesn't understand why Sherlock told her Jim was gay, and she doesn't understand why Jim reacted so angrily.

She goes to bed, and wakes the next morning with no more answers than she had the night before.

* * *

Jim's not at work. Molly had planned on surprising him with coffee and an invitation to talk things out over lunch, but he's not there. His manager's practically foaming at the mouth when she asks where he is, because apparently it was Jim's turn to do something technological with the hospital's emergency check-in computers and he's not there. She apologizes profusely for not knowing where he is, and goes down to the morgue, where she spends the rest of the morning up to her elbows in cadavers.

At lunch, he still hasn't returned anyone's calls or texts, and so she posts a message on her blog, pleading for him to get in touch with _someone_. By the end of the day, he still hasn't. She cleans up, physically and mentally and emotionally exhausted, and hails for a cab to take her home. She's worried and feels sick that maybe, this time, Sherlock was wrong, and she's ruined her chances with someone who might have truly learned to love her.

* * *

It's terrible, really, how she receives the news. She's getting ready for bed, and brushing her teeth as she watches the evening news. She returns to the bathroom to rinse and spit, and the newscaster in the other room is reporting that the madman behind the vest bombs, and it turns out, the 'gas leak' explosion, has been named.

"Police have connected one James Moriarty to the events of the past week. Sources tell us that he is responsible for the recent deaths of- " Molly gargles, losing a few seconds of the newscaster's voice, "-as well as the 'suicide serial killer' deaths from last January. He has been identified, and police are requesting assistance in apprehending the criminal. He is dangerous – we repeat, he is _a known killer_ – so if you have seen him, or have information on his whereabouts – please don't hesitate to contact Scotland Yard at the following number…"

Molly pads sleepily back out into the sitting room to turn off the telly and head to bed. A face is plastered on the screen, and for one brief moment, she thinks _he's dead, Jim was killed by this man – James Moriarty_, and then she reads the bottom of the screen, and hears the newscaster's voice, and she realizes that Jim _is_ this man. And at first she thinks it's a mistake, because Jim works in IT and watches _Glee_ and likes Toby, but then she remembers the incident with Sherlock in the lab. Suddenly the events in the lab and at the Fox make much more sense.

She sits down on the sofa with a soft _thunk_, staring at the screen in horror. Toby attempts to curl around her legs and when that fails to get her attention, he jumps into her lap. The news has moved on to a recap of the suicide serial killer deaths – complete with a short on Sherlock Holmes - John called it a _Study in Pink_ – and then a commercial for Greek yogurt comes on. She can scarcely breathe, and when a knock sounds on the door, she panics.

She eyes the door, relieved to find that she had remembered to lock it and bolt the chain. She swallows, and realizes her phone is already on her bedroom nightstand, alarm set to wake her for work the next morning. She considers grabbing a knife from the kitchen on her way to the bedroom, planning to lock the door behind her and call Greg Lestrade for help.

"Ms. Hooper, I assure you, I am not James Moriarty. My name is Anthea, and I'm here to collect you for questioning." A pleasant female voice sounds from the other side of the door.

Molly's heart begins to calm, but then a thousand thoughts flood her mind at once. _What if Jim – Moriarty – what if he has men and women who work for him? He'd have to, right? What if she's one of them? What if she's not one of them but she's with the government and they assume I'm his accomplice? What if they take me away and lock me up and I can't tell them anything because I never knew that-_

Knocking again, and someone fiddling with the lock on her door. "Ms. Hooper, _please_. For your own protection, come with us. I assure you you'll be back in time for work tomorrow morning. We just need you to answer a few questions."

Molly sighs, and walks to the door. She looks through the peephole, and a pretty, professional young woman is standing outside, alone. She doesn't look like a lackey for a serial killer, but then – most people don't. She's got some sort of iPad, and her lithe fingers are flying over it with such speed Molly is sure she's watching a film on fast-forward. Still, the woman looks safe enough.

"Do you have some sort of a badge?" Molly asks through the door.

The woman, Anthea, sighs. "I do not. I am the personal secretary to Mycroft Holmes. Yes, brother to the Sherlock Holmes you know. He has a minor position in the British government, and he is currently assigned to the Moriarty case. Please come with me."

At the sound of Sherlock Holmes, Molly's heart does some sort of impressive acrobatics maneuver in her chest. "I didn't know he had a brother," she breathes, suspicion crowded out by awareness that she now knows something else about her favorite consulting detective.

"He does. Ms. Hooper, I regret to inform you that if you do not come with me immediately, I will have to call for reinforcements to open the door _for_ you. Mr. Holmes would be…displeased."

Molly considers texting Sherlock, to ask him if he really does have a brother. Just to be safe. _And to have an excuse to talk to him about something other than bodies and murders and lab results._ She shakes that traitorous thought away.

"Ms. Hooper." The voice on the other side of the door has reached its limits.

Molly's phone rings.

It's an unlisted number. She answers it.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Hooper, or I suppose I should say _Doctor_ Molly Hooper, only child of Mr. and Mrs. Daniel and Margaret Hooper, youngest female lead pathologist at St. Bartholomew's in history, owner of a cat named Toby, likes her coffee with three sugars and one and half creamers unless real milk is available, and most recently, girlfriend to known psychopath James Moriarty. You _will_ open the door for Anthea, and you _will_ go with her. If you do not, I have ways of making sure you are transferred to a hospital so far from London it takes you two full days to reach town."

Molly swallows, speechless.

"Now, now, Dr. Hooper. Just open the door. I would hate to transfer you. You're the only pathologist in the city, lead or otherwise, who will work with my brother for more than five minutes. I sent Anthea because I believed a female presence would…reassure you. You are safer with me, and by extension, her, than you would be with Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Molly opens the door as the call ends, smiling just a little sheepishly at the woman on the other side. Anthea barely looks up from her device before she walks into the room, locking the door behind her. "I assume you'd like a few moments to change into something more decent."

Molly looks down at her pajamas in embarrassment. She's wearing worn pajama bottoms with cats and stars all over them, and an old t-shirt from uni. "Um…yeah. Thanks." At least she's showered and brushed her teeth.

Molly stands in front of the wardrobe, frantically trying to decide what to wear to meet _Sherlock Holmes's_ brother. She wonders if he looks anything like Sherlock, and if he's any nicer. He certainly didn't seem much nicer on the phone. _Transfer me, indeed_. She decides on a newer pair of khakis, one without any discolouration on it yet, and one of her nicer green blouses. Her father once told her cool colors complimented the warmth of her heart.

A pair of thick socks, boots, and a spring jacket finish her look, and after she grabs her phone and her bag she's ready to leave with Anthea.

* * *

The car is sleek, and black, and expensive. As Molly slides in, she notices the leather seats and posh interior. Mycroft Holmes certainly seems to have a similar style to his brother. Anthea sits delicately on the seat beside her, legs crossed primly at the ankles, and Molly can't help but be reminded of _The Princess Diaries_, and that a queen never _slides_, and that a true lady never crosses her legs. She discreetly shifts her own so that they cross at the ankles.

After about ten minutes, she realizes how uncomfortable she is. _Sod this_. She crosses her legs more comfortably and attempts a conversation with Anthea.

"So…you work for Sherlock's brother, then?" She smiles timidly at the woman beside her.

"Yes." The woman doesn't look up from her tablet.

Molly attempts a light joke. "If he's anything like his brother, he must be hell to work for."

"Not at all." Still no eye contact.

"Mmm." Molly sighs. Anthea is obviously not interested in conversation.

So Molly occupies herself by staring out the tinted windows of the fancy black car she's currently riding in to who-knows-where to visit a brother she didn't even know Sherlock had. The weather in April in London is terribly predictable, but this night has pleasantly surprised her. There are no clouds in the sky, no rain to speak of, and though she can't see the stars for all of the light pollution in the city, she can imagine them, dazzling and shining as brightly as on the nights she spent with her father in the country before he died. The thought comforts her, and she quietly relives those happy moments in her head to calm herself as they make their way to their destination.

* * *

When the car arrives at the Diogenes Club, Molly is escorted into a room with leather chairs, tables, and drinks that look as though they cost more than all the furniture and food in her flat combined. Anthea introduces her to Mycroft Holmes (who looks nothing like his brother, _thank goodness_), and takes a seat a few feet away from them.

"Good evening, Ms. Hooper."

"Doctor," Molly corrects automatically, and immediately feels a mutinous flush creep into her cheeks. "Sorry – I – you just, before, you said I was a doctor, so…"

The man across from her, dressed in a very expensive-looking suit, relaxes into the chair he is sitting in. Two of his fingers rest against his cheek, and Molly can tell he is thinking deeply…_analyzing _her. She is reminded forcefully of Sherlock and the gaze he takes on when he is in his 'mind palace', but their similarities end their. She's thankful they look nothing alike. Mycroft's casual air only makes her feel more anxious. He raises an eyebrow at her outburst, and a small smile twists his lips upward.

She recognizes that smile, though – it's the smile Sherlock gives people when he thinks they're being stupid. She scowls, but there is no real spite behind it. "I _am_ a doctor. Not…not to be pretentious."

"Ah, but I'm used to pretentious people, _Doctor_ Hooper. Good of you to make me feel more comfortable."

And she frowns again, because that's not what she meant _at all_, and she realizes that he's mocking her. "Sorry," she says miserably.

He sighs, almost imperceptibly. "No need for apologies, Dr. Hooper. I know, of course, that you had nothing to do with James Moriarty's little _game_. He has only recently been employed at St. Barts, and, judging from my surveillance and your blog, you have only been a pawn to reach my brother. I brought you here this evening to discuss both Moriarty and your connection to my brother. We'll begin with 'Jim from I.T.'."

They spend the next half hour discussing everything Molly knows about Jim. Mycroft interrogates every detail of every moment she has spent with him, causing her to blush on more than one occasion. As she reveals more and more, though, she also gets angrier and angrier. She feels the heat rising in her face, and her words are matter-of-fact as she realizes for herself what a ruse her relationship with Jim had been. Her voice rings low and clear and condemning. When she reaches the point of their argument at the Fox, she pauses, frowning.

"I think I knew something was wrong that night. When I asked him if – if he was gay, he looked – almost – _happy_ for a moment."

Mycroft leans forward slightly, raising his brow, encouraging her to go on.

Gaining confidence, Molly continues. "He had a look – like he was _ecstatic_ that I thought he was gay because of Sherlock's deductions. He covered it up quickly, and his face was perfectly hurt and furious. He started shouting at me, and it didn't make sense, because he wasn't either confirming or denying that he was gay…he just said it was over and left."

Mycroft's face is unreadable, so she finishes her tale, up until the moment Anthea came to her door to whisk her away. When she's done, he doesn't respond, so she adds, "That's it. That's all I know."

He clears his throat, but other than that, there is no motion from Mycroft Holmes. _It's the stillness that makes them so imposing_, she thinks to herself. _Everyone else has a nervous tell – a twitch or a way of rubbing their fingers together or cracking knuckles or something._ She thinks, that were she in King's Cross station at rush hour, she could pick the brothers out in a second. _Just look for stillness in a sea of moving people_.

When she refocuses on Mycroft Holmes, he is smiling at her, and it's different from the first time. It's not genuine, but it's not condescending, either. "Dr. Hooper," he drawls. "My brother has a bad habit of underestimating people. Our differences lie in the fact that he believes he must do everything himself, and I believe in delegating tasks to competent employees."

_Minor position in the government, my foot_. Minor government employees don't have employees of their own to delegate to.

He continues, "I appreciate your work with my brother, Dr. Hooper. I'd like to offer you something, in exchange for…reporting on his behaviors."

Molly hopes her face is as unreadable as the man's sitting across from her. "You mean, spy on him."

"There he goes, underestimating people again." He's back to sarcasm, and Molly frowns.

She can't make Mycroft Holmes out, which is odd. For all her social awkwardness, she really is good at reading people. Even Sherlock – he's a prick, but most of the time he doesn't even realize that what he's saying is inappropriate. It's easier to forgive someone when they don't realize how awful they're being, although it's still not exactly _easy_ on her heart. That's why she's so fond of him – even though he's rude, and arrogant, and _selfish_ (ah, that's the fault she forgot earlier, waiting for Jim the other day), he's rarely _malicious. _Even though he always _says_ awful things, more often than not he ends up _doing_ the right thing, and her mother always told her that actions speak louder than words. He's beautiful, and she knows he's lonely, even if most of the time he's too busy distracting himself with murders and experiments to recognize it. Molly has learned that for all his habits and snarky comments, he's a simpler man than he seems. And his simplicity – solve crimes, conduct experiments, see the invisible, save the day, push people away – is what attracts her to him.

Mycroft Holmes is different. Sherlock never pretends to like anyone, and will even pretend that he _doesn't_ like people he actually cares for – like John. Mycroft, though – he seems to have more manners, but…there's something a bit more sinister, a bit more frightening about his politeness. She doesn't trust it, and his insinuations that she's a simpleton and his offer to bribe her in exchange for information on his brother make her angry.

"No, thank you," she says, and she's proud of the curtness in her voice. But then the weight of the past week settles on her, and her eyes feel very heavy, and they betray her by beginning to prick with tears. She blinks rapidly, and suddenly wishes for the familiar warmth of Toby in her lap.

He smiles at her again, and it's as though the action causes him pain. "I thought that would be your answer, so I shan't pry. Dr. Watson gave me a similar answer a few months ago, and his…introduction to myself was not as polite. Your loyalty to my brother is an asset I don't take lightly, Dr. Hooper. Try not to get involved with any more sociopaths. My brother is more than enough for anyone to handle."

"I don't really _handle_ him." She mumbles, and she thinks _traitor_ as a tear slides down her cheek. She really is exhausted.

"No one does," he says primly, and stands.

She takes this as her cue to leave, and brushes invisible lint off of her blouse. Anthea stands as well, and Molly puts on her coat, feeling very frumpy and out of place. She _dreads _going to work tomorrow, and facing everyone who knew about Jim. She shudders at the thought of facing John and Sherlock again. A different sort of thought strikes her, and she turn back to Mycroft Holmes.

"Jim – I mean – Moriarty. Am I – am I safe?"

He smirks at her, and for some reason, it's the least offensive of any of the smiles he's offered her tonight. "I was wondering when you would ask me that. You needn't worry about him, Dr. Hooper. As we were speaking tonight, my men have secured his person. And, considering you were simply a pawn in a plan to reach my brother, I doubt he's interested in holding any sort of leverage over your head. You're quite safe."

It's both the answer she wanted to hear, and the one she didn't. She nods in acknowledgement, not trying to hide the tear that falls from her other eye. She turns to go with Anthea, but is stopped one last time by Mycroft Holmes.

"And Dr. Hooper? If you're attempting to decide on a reaction to all of this, for your…friends – I'd stick with anger. It's more attractive on you."

Molly turns suddenly to look at him, but his back is to her and he's already leaving her to Anthea. She blinks furiously, and a surprisingly, she feels warm for the first time in hours.

Anthea offers her a small smile as she usher back into the vehicle, but does not enter it with her. As the door shut behinds her, Molly thinks about Mycroft's parting words. _Was that a back-handed compliment_? She decides, for tonight, to indulge herself and believe that it was.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_"I'd stick with anger. It's more attractive on you."_

That may be true, but Molly is still sad. She feels frightened, and exhausted, and betrayed, and _sad_. So she decides to call off work tomorrow, because heaven knows she hasn't taken a personal day in years and she's due for one. With that decision made, she cries softly into her pillow for all of three minutes before sleep takes her away from the madness that is her life.

* * *

The moment at the pool when his body has recovered from the dual shock of thinking that _John_ was Moriarty and then realizing that he wasn't, when the real Moriarty steps out and Sherlock recognizes him immediately as _Molly Hooper's (perhaps not-so) gay boyfriend_, his stomach does a nasty little twist inside of him. He decides it must be hunger, because it hasn't eaten in nearly two days.

But as the red laser-points of more snipers than he can count polka-dot the skin and clothing of himself and one John Watson, he realizes that quite possibly the only way out of this is to threaten to blow the whole building. And as he aims for John's discarded bomb vest, a part of him – albeit a very tiny part – is pleased that if he has to go down with a madman, at least he'll go down avenging John and one of the few other people who can stand to work with him for more than five minutes at a time.

The second they're out of the Carl Powers nightmare and the game is nearly over, with newscasters and the Scotland Yard and lights from a dozen different vehicles creating a nightclub affect in the street, he takes his phone out of his pocket and glares at the screen. He doesn't _want_ to phone his brother over a mousy pathologist – he hates calling his brother for _anything_ – and if his brother had any decency at all, he'd already be contacting Sherlock and berating him for letting James Moriarty escape.

"Brother mine, you're slipping."

Ah, there he is. On the scene, of course. He never uses technology if he can reprimand someone in person. "And you're gaining weight. I suppose you already have your 'people' on his trail."

"Of course. We'll have him in roughly – two hours, I presume."

Sherlock's lip twitches, just a hair, and he curses his brother for noticing.

"Two hours is rather impressive, I thought. It's taken you nearly a week to catch up with him. Unless – no. There isn't anyone in particular you believe is in _danger_, brother? Anyone you would like – _protection_ for?"

Sherlock glares at him. "Don't be ridiculous."

Mycroft looks him over, with a smug half-smile lighting his features. "Good, brother. I would be remiss if I didn't remind you that caring is _not_ an advantage."

"Hmmm." And there is that nasty little stomach twist again – he really does need to eat. He supposes he _could_ go to Molly's flat himself, but he'd have to stop at St. Bart's on the way to steal her address, and really, it's entirely possible that Moriarty won't think to go there at _all_. He decides that the probability is high that the only pathologist in London who will work with him will be safe tonight without him, and he can avoid any emotional entanglements she may get caught up in if he arrives at her door attempting to protect her from her maniacal ex-boyfriend.

"If you're done here, Mycroft, I have work to do."

"Very well. Take care, brother."

Sherlock turns to walk away, already retreating into his mind palace, attempting to connect every detail of the case in his mind.

Mycroft interrupts him. "Oh, and brother? I'm taking the liberty of picking up Ms. Molly Hooper. I have some questions for her regarding her most recent boyfriend."

_Doctor_, Sherlock corrects automatically in his head, because he hates that his brother assumes he surrounds himself with _complete_ idiots. But then he clenches his fists in annoyance with himself, because he shouldn't really care at all what his brother thinks of him or whom he chooses to work with. He shakes his head once, sharply, and waves a hand carelessly behind him in reply to his brother.

* * *

The next morning, Molly's internal clock wakes her at the same time she always wakes – 7:15 a.m. on the dot. Like a reluctant warrior preparing herself for battle, she calls off work for the day to get her story straight and her emotions in check. She is determined to be a new woman by the end of the day – Molly 2.0. She assures her boss that she is fine and that she just needs a day to herself. She's surprised when he tells her it's about bloody time, but considers it a compliment, and places it in the category of things to be thankful for that morning.

As she's making herself breakfast, she runs through the facts and her feelings in her head, and faces her denial head on. _You were used. You were used by a murderous psychopath to gain access to the man you adore. You let him kiss you, and you let him make you coffee. And how does that make you feel, Molly?_ Utterly useless, and stupid, and angry, and _sad_. She's not frightened anymore, but she is still most definitely sad, and _angry_.

Greg Lestrade calls her, telling her they've somehow received transcripts from her interrogation the night before, so she's all set in that department and to please, call him if she needs anything at all. She assures him all she needs is a day to herself and she'll be right as rain. It was only three dates, after all. Nothing serious.

She forgoes the news for tragically romantic films and spends the morning crying into her tea and eating chocolates and fussing over Toby until even he can no longer stand her affections. When she's sufficiently depleted her stores of sadness and self-pity, she feels refreshed, and spends a few moments breathing in the sweet and stale air of her flat, thankful that she's still alive, that the man she loves is still alive, that Toby is still alive, and that she's still the youngest lead pathologist at St. Bart's in history. She has a lot going for her, really. She closes the final chapter of her time with Jim (_James)_ Moriarty by posting a final update to her blog, vowing never to record her personal feelings on the Internet again, and puts on a fresh pair of sweats.

After changing, she decides to work off that box of chocolates she ate earlier in the morning and goes for a run. The day contains the same pleasantly warm and unexpectedly dry weather as the night before. As her heart rate increases and the endorphins begin rushing through her bloodstream, she feels the stress and sour-stomach feeling of the past two days leave her system. A determined sort of peace replaces them. She takes a break in a nearby park, watching families and other joggers and an amusing bird that she could swear was as cheeky and flirtatious as the robin in _The Secret Garden_.

Once she's fulfilled her people-watching quota for the day, she finishes her run through the park, listening to 'Eye of the Tiger' and other equally cheesy, uplifting songs from the 80's and 90's. She returns to her flat with a bag of her favorite take-away, her body relaxed, and a heated sort of self-satisfaction in her heart.

When she's finished eating, she gives her mum a ring, and tells her about the man who used her and abused her heart. She conveniently leaves out the part about said man being a psychopathic killer. No need to worry her. And her mum says everything a mother should, and she hangs up feeling righteous anger soothed by the unconditional love of a treasured and trusted parent.

Next, she calls her friend Kristin from uni. Kristin's the perfect choice because they're both pathologists, both wallflowers, and Kristin moved to Baltimore two years ago so she knows nothing of Molly dating one of Britain's criminal masterminds. They only chat a few times a year, but whenever they do, it's as if they're both _those_ types of Doctors because time has twisted and curved into itself, waiting patiently for them to reunite. Kristin is the perfect listener and says all the right things. They decide it's better for Molly to stick with loving a certain _other_ high-functioning sociopath for the time being, because at least he's honest about it, and then Kristin distracts her with a funny story about losing a charm off of her favorite necklace during an autopsy.

Molly Hooper showers and goes to bed that night much lighter than the night before.

* * *

_Stick with anger. It's more attractive on you._

The next morning, Molly Hooper takes extra care getting ready. She remembers reading once that you should dress your absolute best when you want to frighten people, and today, she wants to be _fierce_. No cat jumpers or frumpy bottoms today. When she goes into work, she will be _angry_, and she will _not_ be pitied. So she carefully applies her make-up and chooses her classiest blouse and her most professional jumper and her best pair of khakis, from the night before last. She practices holding her chin up in the mirror and glaring at the world. She rather likes the result.

She spends the day expertly (awkwardly) fending off questions from nosy busybodies and reassuring the colleagues who actually care about _her_ that she's fine, she'll be fine, and that she's more angry than anything else in all of this. She works through the day with all of the righteous fury and inner strength of a beautiful woman scorned, and she's quite proud of herself. She's relieved that she doesn't see a certain dark-haired detective today. She still hasn't decided on exactly how to respond to him.

* * *

In a week, Molly Hooper is as back to normal as a girl who dissects dead bodies for a living possibly can be. This experience has not left her unchanged, however.

It's a fine line between meek mousiness and quiet strength, but Molly Hooper crosses it with all of the grace and wisdom her thirty-one years has brought her.

For once, she's not worried about when she'll next see Sherlock Holmes, because she knows how she's going to react when he walks through those double doors.

_Stick with anger. It's more attractive on you._

Molly has thought a lot about how she's going to respond, and the more she ponders, the more she realizes that Sherlock's brother, in his own strange way, with those odd words, was doing her a kindness. Sherlock hates any display of sentimentality, but anger – and all its forms – he understands. It's one of the least offensive emotions, to him. And it isn't that difficult for her to be angry with him. She forgives him already, immediately, because she suspects he didn't know either - but she does need to ask him – _after all I've done for you, you seriously let me date a madman?_

* * *

It takes a full day for John to realize that James Moriarty is Molly's 'Jim from IT'. Well, not really – he knew it the moment he was strapped into that bomb jacket by Molly's psycho boyfriend, of course. It's just that the hours after were filled with the adrenaline of escaping and the exhaustion that comes with surviving death, so he didn't really have time to analyze it – but it takes a full day for him to realize the implications. He starts, sending the teacup clinking on the tray beside him, and causing his laptop to slide off of his lap. He barely catches it before it hits the ground.

He swears profusely for a moment, and Sherlock glances up at him.

"Sherlock – Moriarty – _Jim_ – Molly – is she - ?"

"She's fine, John. Moriarty obviously only used her to get to me. My brother has already…apprehended him. He's also had Molly under surveillance for some time now. I don't think he'd be interested in doing anything to her, anyways. She was no more important to him than the hostages in bomb wear. She's _fine_." He emphasizes the last word with disdain.

John glares at him. "You're an idiot. She's not _fine_ – she's probably just found out her boyfriend's a psychopath."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"And finding out that someone she cared about – someone she went on _dates_ with, Sherlock, and she was probably _alone_ with him-"

"I hardly see how that matters. She's not alone with him _now_."

"Sherlock! The point is, she _dated_ him, and he _killed people_!"

"Sally? Sabrina? What's her name – she dated you. Lots of women - heaven help them - have dated you, and you've killed people."

John's jaw drops. "That's _different_ Sherlock. I've killed _criminals_, who were trying to kill me or _someone else I know_. Moriarty – he terrorized _innocent _people. He blew up a flat! He forced people to commit suicide! He strapped bombs to a _child! _He strapped a bomb on _me!_"

"So what are you proposing we _do_, exactly, John? Visit Molly in the morgue to comfort her? Given our most recent encounter, she probably finds me as reassuring as a shark. Send her flowers and a note that says 'Sorry you dated a psychopathic murderer'? I don't know _much _about sentiment, but I _hardly_ think that would help."

John tugs at his hair in disbelief. "You really are a _machine_, Sherlock. What I'm _saying_ is that the next time we go to the morgue, you'd better be _nice_ to her. Mmm? Don't say _anything_. I'll talk to her – I'll do the talking. And you'll say you're sorry, and then, when we're done, if she doesn't leave _crying _again like the last time, yeah? Then you can ask her for mold spores or tissue samples or whatever bloody else you like to ask her for."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say."

As John turns, satisfied, he hears Sherlock mutter under his breath – "Drama queen."

Sherlock has to duck to avoid the coaster that is suddenly flying straight for his head.

* * *

Sherlock avoids visiting Molly in the lab for a full ten days. He hates crying, in whatever form it entails, and if he's being honest, he does feel a little…off, over the whole thing. He told her Jim was gay, but he'd been…fooled. And he'd rather not apologize for something that isn't his fault. _He_ didn't set her up with the psychopath, or force her to date him – and he _did _point out that it would never work between them (never mind that he was wrong about the _reason_ it would never work – it's always something, after all), but John insists that he needs to apologize for whatever it was he said that was wrong.

Eventually, he's forced to go there, because John has hidden his revolver along with his cigarettes and if he can't shoot the walls and he can't have a smoke, he needs the lab at St. Bart's.

He hopes to sneak out without John, but apparently John knows him better than he thought, because he's in the cab with Sherlock before he gets the word "Saint" out of his mouth.

John lectures Sherlock for ten straight minutes on the cab ride over, which is to say that Sherlock deigned to feign interest in John's lecture for ten minutes. It's a personal record, for sure. Thankfully, John stops when Sherlock starts listing the signs that John's latest lady friend will break up with him soon.

* * *

Someone up there loves Molly, because the day Sherlock returns to St. Bart's, she's just discovered traces of poison in the intestines of what appeared to be a simple heart attack victim. Greg's already admired her work, and she's been suppressing a self-satisfied smile all day. It also doesn't hurt that she's wearing a new outfit, just for herself. Just for the sake of looking good. She's not a vain person, not at all, (and Sherlock would never look twice at her, no matter what she was wearing) but she does feel a great deal more confident when she knows she looks good, and today, she looks _good_.

* * *

When the detective and his blogger enter the morgue, Molly is humming. Her back is to them, and she has earphones in, but he knows that she knows someone has entered by the slight tensing of her shoulders and slight turn of her head.

She turns towards them with a tray full of intestines and for a moment Sherlock thinks he's going to have to catch it because her mouth opens in a little 'O' and she blinks rapidly, but she recovers quickly, mashing her lips into a thin line as she nods to them and brushes past them with the tray into the adjoining room. She continues humming, however, and the two men exchange confused glances. John is confused because this isn't what he expected, and Sherlock is confused because it's not what John told him to expect.

_At least there aren't any tears…yet_.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John, smug. "I told you, Molly is _fine_." But secretly, he's a little pleased at this reaction. _Molly is a normal person, and normal people typically have intense emotional reactions to being played by a psychopathic criminal mastermind. Perhaps Molly is not as normal as I first believed._ Sherlock does love puzzles.

John shakes his head in disbelief. "Maybe…no…she…she must be in denial. I've seen it before-"

"I'm not in denial, John Watson." Her voice is steady as she returns from the other room, removing her latex gloves and washing her hands methodically in the sink. "I'm…I'm _angry_."

When she turns back to the men, watching her in stunned silence, her chin turns up, forcing Sherlock to meet her glittering eyes. Her back is ramrod straight, but even angry, there is something undeniably gentle about Molly Hooper. It's as though she's communicating that she's already forgiven him for whatever grievous mistake he's made, but she still intends to speak her mind about it.

"You told me he was _gay_, Sherlock. Forgot to mention the bit that he was a _murderous psychopath_. Care to explain? Because I know we're not really – f - _friends_, but for goodness sake – we've worked together long enough that – well, I'd have at _least_ thought you'd have the decency to tell me the man I was seeing was a _killer_."

She holds Sherlock's stare for a long moment, during which John's eyes widen so much Sherlock is sure they're about to cover half his face.

Eventually, John breaks the silence. "Right. Yeah. Good point. I'm gonna get some coffee. Anyone else want some? No? That's all right." He gives Sherlock a meaningful glare before escaping through the doors.

_Traitor_, Sherlock thinks half-heartedly. He swallows, but he's not nervous. His mind is so full of data – new, surprising, unexpected data on the formerly meek Molly Hooper, that he is honestly glad to have time alone with the new subject of his thoughts.

_Hypothesis: I have underestimated Molly Hooper. Facts: Molly Hooper has not spent the past week and a half crying over James Moriarty. Molly Hooper is not wallowing in self-pity or fear. Molly Hooper is not stuttering (much) today. Molly Hooper is angry with me. Molly Hooper has already forgiven me. Molly Hooper has confronted me. Molly Hooper is not normal. Molly Hooper is not a mouse. _

* * *

After John leaves, Molly holds Sherlock's gaze for what feels like a mini-eternity. She knows he's watching her, seeing her – and she realizes that he's actually _seeing_ her for the first time – that she is Molly Hooper, someone interesting, someone worth analyzing. She hopes she holds up to his _deductions_.

When he doesn't give her an answer, when he stands their, blinking at her, expression unreadable, unmoving in any other aspect of his person, she sighs, disappointed. She feels heat creep into her cheeks, but stands her ground. When he finally speaks, it's not what she expects.

* * *

"You've lost three and half pounds." _And she's wearing a new outfit; creases from the shop she bought it from are still visible so it hasn't been washed more than once; not wearing lipstick, but is wearing light concealer and she certainly doesn't need blush with the way she's going on right now. What is she doing? She didn't know I was coming in today. Is she…_

* * *

As soon as Molly hears those words, she turns away. It's not an answer, but it's what she should have expected. When she's sure she's reached the point when he can't see her face, she bites her lip, and then – suddenly - the utterly unexpected makes her heart freeze in her chest.

* * *

_Is she already looking for a new date? Is Molly Hooper so desperate for company that she's already trying to attract a new male to her life? _Sherlock frowns, because that won't do at all. She's not as helpful when she's distracted by a man (himself excluded, because when she's distracted by _him_, he can get whatever he wants), and really, given her track record – well. She's already gone in for _two_ sociopaths, and while she got lucky with him (_he_ doesn't want to kill her or kidnap her or use her in a plot to overthrow the government), there's no telling what the third sociopath might do. He decides further study is needed.

As she turns away, he grabs her wrist. When she turns to him, her teeth lose their grip on her lower lip, and her mouth falls open, just wide enough for him to see her teeth and the smallest tip of her tongue. She glances up at him, but she looks away quickly, eyes moving to a button on his shirt and then his hand on her wrist.

Slowly, delicately, he turns her wrist so that her palm faces sideways, and drags his fingers lightly down so that one of them presses lightly on her pulse point and the rest curve gently around her hand.

* * *

Molly is pinned by the sight of him, the nearness of him, the smell of him, the _feel_ of him. He's been this close before, of course – he has no respect for personal boundaries, unless they're his own - but he's never _touched_ her like this.

She knows immediately that he's taking her pulse – exactly _why, _she's not sure. But as soon as his strong, delicate fingers curve around her hand, she feels her pulse tip up and she barely suppresses a shiver.

* * *

Her heart beats increases rapidly as he holds her there, finger on her pulse point, his thumb moving gently, minutely over the pad of her palm. But in the moment before his touch sends her heart thrumming, her pulse - and the feel of her skin and the scent of her hand cream and the tired, proud look in her eyes tells him that she has not been chasing men all week. She's been deterring them. She _has_ been angry, and if he has to hazard a guess, it has more to do with the fact that she's been fooled and used by a killer madman than with the fact that he failed to warn her about him. He also supposes it will take her a long time to trust a man enough to date again. But he needs her to trust _him_, because he really does need the lab, and really…he needs her. He trusts her work because it's not just that she's the _only _pathologist who will work with him, she's also the _best_, and he will _not_ work with anyone else.

But she blames him in part for this whole mess with Moriarty.

Even though it's not his fault, she does have a point. She's so used to seeing him make his brilliant deductions that he supposes…well, he _did_ disappoint her, just a bit. And it's not his fault, so he won't apologize, but he thinks that he should say something to lift her spirits and re-enter her good graces because it's what John told him he should do. And if he can't work with her, he'll have to work with that intern. Howard? Heathcliff?

So Sherlock speaks perhaps the kindest words he's ever said in his life. "He fooled me too."

* * *

Molly has been breathing evenly, eyes watching Sherlock's hand, his shirt, his fingers – anywhere but his face. But – when she hears those words – _he fooled me too_ – her breath hitches, and she can't help but meet his gaze.

And his gaze is so intense it nearly sends her into cardiac arrest. Because how long has she wanted to be the focus of his attentions – how long has she waited for him to _see_ her – and it's all at once everything and nothing she expected.

Because his face is filled with none of the tender care or gentleness she'd dreamed of, but it _is _filled with curiosity and peaked interest. And she realizes that she feels more satisfied with that look of _concentration _than she would have been had he looked at her like in her dreams, because a look of affection would be so very false, but this look he has now – it's _genuine_.

As she remembers to breathe again, she can't stop the smile spreading across her face.

She was hoping for an apology, but Sherlock's admission is better. It's a shared hatred (well, hatred on her part – annoyance on his) for this man that fooled them both. Paired with the knowledge of his brother, and the way he's observing her right now, _cataloging _her, and the way he touched her (it was just his hand on hers – but it was so _intimate_), she feels closer to him than she's ever felt in her life. And the last string of betrayal and anger holding her heart down snaps cleanly in two, and she feels her heart rise, buoyant, in her chest.

She's still smiling prettily.

* * *

Sherlock is so focused on cataloging new information about Molly and the realization that it is going to be more difficult for him to win his way into the lab with false compliments that he doesn't realize she's pulling away until her low, gentle voice asks him to let her go.

"Sherlock. I…I need to finish my work. Not that I don't…I mean…"

He drops her hand lightly from his grip, and his brow furrows. _She's stuttering again_. Perhaps it will not be as difficult as he thought. Apparently she still finds him attractive.

Sherlock sighs. Molly is smiling like a simpleton. "I'm going to need a liver, preferably clean although slight cirrhosis is also acceptable. I'll retrieve the rest of the materials myself."

He turns to begin collecting things for his experiment, but stops suddenly. Without turning around, he adds, "And…Molly. It won't happen again. The…being fooled."

* * *

As Sherlock gives her orders, she bites back an even larger smile on her face. She'll get him his liver, of course she will, she's his pathologist, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

When he tells her he won't be fooled again, she immediately understands the gift he's given her. He's too proud to apologize, of course. But she knows he means Moriarty won't fool him again. Even though he says nothing about her, she feels a sort of implied protection in his words, and her heart nearly flies from her chest.

She suppresses it the best she can, and says nothing, because she doesn't want to embarrass Sherlock with sentiment. She's not his friend – she's barely his assistant in the lab – but it's a start, and it gives her hope.

She smiles the rest of the day.

* * *

When John went on his 'coffee break', he fairly ran to the canteen and back, then waited outside the door and listened for any yelling or breaking sounds coming from the lab. When none came, he waited as long as he could before slowly pushing the door open.

He's shocked to find that some things never change.

Sherlock has a liver spread out before him, and has something boiling in a beaker beside him. He's concentrating intensely, completely oblivious to Molly's own tests on some intestines at the table next to his. Molly's smiling, stealing glances at him now and then, and then refocusing on her work.

John pauses, baffled at the scene before him.

"I _told_ you, John. Molly's _fine_."

John looks to Molly, who turns her smile from Sherlock to himself. "Might not date anyone from work again, but other than that…yeah. I'm fine."

John shakes his head, unbelieving, lips twitching into a smile of his own. "Yeah. Understandable."

He watches the two work side-by-side – moving easily around each other, communicating without speaking – and he thinks that he's underestimated both of them. Apparently, Sherlock is not _so_ much of a machine that he can't smooth things over with a woman. And Molly Hooper – she's apparently gotten some answers from Sherlock that have satisfied her. She knows how to handle him. He might ask her for some pointers.

**The End**.

**Hope you enjoyed this! Sorry for the delay – between work, finishing taxes, and family stuff, I didn't time to finish and post this last weekend. **

**Props to anyone to who got the Scorpio Races references. There's also a blatant Secret Garden and Doctor Who reference. I don't own those or Sherlock.**

**What did you think of Molly and Sherlock's episode in the lab? It was a challenge to keep them in character. I wanted Molly to be strong and interesting to Sherlock, and for him to realize that she's somewhat valuable to him, but I also wanted him to do something that would give her cause to dress up for him at Christmas…**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. **

**Reviews are highly appreciated, and I always try to reply to them. **


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